Breathe easily
by robot-keayleuu
Summary: Sherlock and John find it difficult to breathe easily (S2E3 spoils)


Seconds ago, this street was empty. Now, people crowd around in a circle- staring at the body lying outstretched on the pavement with a terrible curiosity in their eyes. But the crowd is not important-for these are nameless, faceless beings- only by chance were their lives twisted in with one man's unfortunate fall. These people know nothing of the body before them—but there is one that can be called a friend, who rushes to his side.

'Out of the way… out of the way…'

A short, slightly tousled man pushes through the crowd. His eyes scout the body looking for some indication that it isn't real, his face crumpling up in pain. He has to look long and hard before the realization settles in, and when it does, the man witnesses the body in all its misfortune, and he drops to his knees in despair. He shakes his head-as if to dismiss the terrible truth his eyes were showing him-but the picture before him does not change-a blot on the canvas of pavement painted by a corpse; the roads stained with the blood of a man who had been taken before his time.

Sherlock Holmes lies sprawled on the pavement. Blood leaks from his head in a thick, bubbling pool and seeps through the cracks in the cobblestones-no longer a part of his body, but now feeding the weeds that push up through the earth. Torrents of red float their way through the torn, white skin around his skull; his arms are bent at his sides, legs twisted at an unnatural angle. He'd fallen-like a ball- 70 feet onto the street below, however- unlike a ball- Sherlock Holmes did not bounce. He landed face first on the pavement, spread out like a macabre snow-angel: ominous and out of place.

'Sherlock… Sherlock, I'm here…'

John knows there's a chance that Sherlock survived. He tries to scoop him up into his arms, but it's difficult because Sherlock is frail, and his own hands are shaking.

'I've got you Sherlock, I'm here. Oh God, Sherlock, I'm here…'

John presses his nose into Sherlock's curls and rocks him, imagining they're back in their flat. He wants this to be a bad dream-he wants the crowd to disappear and for time to freeze, so even if this was real, he could hold Sherlock, forever. John feels the warm gush of blood over his hands and squeezes his eyes shut, tears slipping from the creases of his skin.

'Sir,' a man approaches, but John ignores him. 'Sir, I saw him fall, there isn't anything you can do... I called an ambulance—'

'I'm his friend!' John screams with a suddenness so foreboding that anyone else who thought to break the moment would be pushed back, into the shadows. The man takes one look into John's eyes and backs away, nervously.

'D-did you hear that, Sherlock?'

John shakes the body in his arms, holding Sherlock's head against his shoulder.

'Help is coming, Sherlock… breathe easily… Breathe easily, it'll be alright…'

'J-Joh...' Sherlock's voice shakes violently as he attempts speech, causing John's hands to clutch tighter at his trembling frame. Sherlock tries to lift his head to look John in the eye but his body rolls forward, neck snapped from the fall.

'I'm c-coll… Johhh… So coll… cold…'

'Breathe easily, Sherlock.'

'J-Joh… Jon…'

'D-Don't speak Sherlock, it'll be alright. An ambulance is coming, h-help is on its way...'

Sherlock's breathing became rugged, then gradually begun to slow. John's took Sherlock's head in his hands, knowing from his service what would come next, but praying to God that it wouldn't— snapping Sherlock's jaw upright, to look the other man in the eye.

For a single moment, the two men locked gazes. Then Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head and the serene, peaceful blue of his irises were replaced with the shocking whiteness of his sclera.

No one in the crowd dared to speak. Breathing easily, John removes his coat and wraps Sherlock in the folds-cradling him close to his chest-whispering repeatedly for him to breathe. He pulls the hood over the bodies head-hiding it's face in his shoulder-not wanting the world to see what had become of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock felt broken in his arms. He wasn't a person any more—he was an empty shell, a doll. Yes, he was a doll- a white, porcelain doll with a crack in his head, where he'd fallen from the shelf of life. He'd gambled—stepped out of his limits- and taken one step forward that had carried him over an edge.

Too many times had John Watson felt comrades breathe their last breath in his arms. As an army doctor the situation was common, but never was it easy. How many times had he told himself: 'not Sherlock?' But it was Sherlock-oh God, why was it Sherlock-what did he do to be taken in this way? 'I should have protected him.' John buries his head in Sherlock's shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock... I'm sorry...'

John shivers, feeling Sherlock's life fade away in his arms. It's as if the body he's holding is breaking away and flaking off into a different life-escalating piece by piece into the greater sky. Sherlock was beyond the grasp of pain or emotional hurt- Sherlock would live forever now, and never would it be Sherlock again.

An ambulance arrives and a team of medics tug him from John's hands, forcing him onto a gurney. They wheel him into the back and the doors snap shut- the ambulance rattling as it disappears around a corner. John does not stir.

The sky cracks apart and rain begins to fall, thunder bellowing across the land like the trumpets of God himself to mark the hour of Sherlock Holmes's demise. John Watson has no concern for the people passing by, or for the blood that pools thick and red around his jeans, soaking him with rainwater and his best friend's inners as he knelt.

The shadow of the building that Sherlock had jumped from loomed over him like a bad omen. The rain-soaked streets felt grey, devoid of life; as time succeeded in freezing, even the rain seemed to slow. John's chest rose and fell as he felt his senses detach-the palms of his hands numb- streaks of white fresh on his cheeks as he cursed the world and its ability to keep moving after Sherlock's heart did not.

'Breathe easily.' John tells himself. 'The ambulance has taken him—it'll be okay.'

John keeps this in his heart, even though he knows that Sherlock had no pulse.


End file.
